


Outmoded Cultural Icons (Or What I Do Behind Them)

by Davechicken



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set early in the show. Sometimes communication is more than words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outmoded Cultural Icons (Or What I Do Behind Them)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written many, many years ago and may be the oldest piece of fanfic I still have to hand. Please be gentle with my teenage past self ;)

We step through onto yet another world; this one is seemingly pleasant, no big lions eating me, no plants trying to poison us, except my old Spacemonkey. There he goes again, chatting on to the locals like he's known them all his life after only a few minutes. In those few minutes he's worked out their language, deciphering it after a few millennia of shifting from some equally bizarre one back on earth.

"Um, Jack, I think we might have a problem."

Not again, why can't the universe leave me alone for one day?

"It seems like a plague has hit them, nearly everyone is sick. They seem to think we've come to save them."

"OK, you and Carter go back and get the Doc out here with her pals in haz-mat suits. Make sure you're both checked out. Teal'c, you and me are gonna see how bad it is."

They go, uncomplaining, but unwillingly. I can't risk Danny catching whatever-it-is, somebody needs to go back with him, Teal'c should be fine here and I never leave a team member behind. Never. Unless I really have to.

Danny tells them that he's going to get more help and that we're going to do the best we can. I follow their leader in grim silence. He is down, but not out. I can read the cautious hope in his eyes. How can I let his people die?

It's bad. We're in the death camp - that's the only name you can give it. I'm no doctor, but these people are really suffering, young and old alike. I hate disease, about as much as I hate politics. Both of these kill innocent people and when I see a problem like that? My immediate reaction is to shoot. Trouble is, you can't shoot disease. You can shoot politicians though. That's why I hate it when we have to observe stupid cultural difference thingys. I think they are stupid, but as Danny-boy is ready to point out, they are not mine to hate.

I order Teal'c to go in another direction and help as best he can.

Suddenly alone, I sit at the end of one of the beds. A little girl is trembling under the sparse covers. Her chestnut hair is plastered over her forehead, but as I reach out to take her temperature, she shrinks back.

Damn! I only want to help, but I'm no linguist and I can't tell her. I show her that my hand is empty and speak soothingly.

"It's OK, I'm here to help, don't worry. You're going to be all right."

I remember looking after Charlie when he was sick. He was a strong kid and hated being ill, being helpless; just like me. Now I look after Danny. He hates me seeing him like that, but I think he's glad that I want to, that I want to help. It's hard to make my voice soft and soothing, hard to drop the sarcastic bite. I need to if she'll trust me, though. She drops her hands, but looks warily up at me. Taking this as an invite, I reach out slowly. Damn, she's really running a high fever. I turn to my belt kit and search through the pockets for some medicine.

How did it get here? It looks pretty bad. Could it have got sent through with the MALP? I know a couple of the techs are nursing colds. Nah, it wouldn't survive the journey, would it? I'll ask the Doc. I want to ask the chief if they've ever had it before, but the only one who can is back on earth. I don't know which is better, us (and therefore me) sending it through the gate, or it having struck earlier and killed hundreds of thousands of people. Yes I do, it's our fault. It has to be.

How is it spread? If it's airborne then I've got no chance. If not and it's contact then Sam and Danny should be OK. I'll just try not to touch anyone or kiss anyone- yeah right!

She shifts uncomfortably as I mix the powder into my waterbottle. I hope this will do the trick. Now to get her to drink it.

No, she doesn't trust me. And who can blame her? I've spent years trying to build up the Big Bad Colonel look. I take a small sip of the wretched stuff. Yeuch. No, she still won't drink it. I'm tired now, I take off my cap as my head is getting hotter in this putrid hellhole of suffering.

Daniel and the others are constantly teasing me about it. I only wear it to protect my head from the sun, from trees, from… who am I kidding? In all honesty, I like to hide under it. It also manages to hide my hair. Don't get me wrong, it's not just Danny's youthful exuberance (since when do I use words like that?) or Carter being impossibly young. It isn't just that Teal'c probably has a few years on me and could theoretically live for a very long time and still doesn’t look a day over thirty. It isn't just that they make me feel unbelievable old and unfit. It's everything. Forty mumble isn't old. (Ya didn't hear what I said? First sign of old age is loss of hearing.) but some days I wish I could just sit back and fish. Those are the days when I don't want to rip out every Goa'uld's throat for what they've done (well, not as much as usual, I just want someone else to do it).

This is one of those days, when death seems closer. I take off my cap, revealing my tousled hair, grey and all. I try to smooth it a bit, which elicits a little giggle from the poor kid. Am I getting somewhere?

"Hey, you think this is funny? Wait till you're grey!"

I reach out and muss up her hair. She laughs again, but this brings on a coughing fit. Concerned, I pat her on the back. Those lungs sound bad. When she subsides, she looks me in the eye. Except she can't. I'm wearing my sunglasses. Something else to hide behind.

Recently, I've had trouble looking people in the eye. No, not like that! I've not gone soft and I can still breathe fire with the best of them, but sometimes I don't want to. Like poor Danny, the world has it in for him, worse than it does for me. He never did anything to upset anyone, except ruffle a few feathers in the halls of academia (again with the complicated words!) I, on the other hand, deserve all the punishment I can get. It always seems to be the kids who suffer; the rookies always get it, despite everyone's best efforts. I think that Danny is God's way of punishing me.

Like Charlie. He must know that I could take the physical stuff and decided to hit me with the mental stuff - guilt. Every time something happens to him, I feel responsible. Not only that I should have stopped it, but also that he is taking my punishment in some bizarre form of retributional karma.

He really deserves a break. 

These eyes have seen too much, too many deaths, too much pain. I've had to look people in the eye and tell them that their rookie son is dead. I've seen him die and it's all my fault.

But these eyes can be used for good things, on occasion. I remove my shades and look at the girl, shivering and dying. She takes the cup from me and drinks the vile stuff. This is more than I can take. She cries softly and I take her in my arms, feeling the sobs wrack her little body. So much for no contact. I smooth her brown hair, hoping that she'll make it. Knowing that the world is a bad place, but hoping that someday, we can make it better.

Maybe she can make a difference.

Doc Frasier is here now, not in a haz-mat suit, I see. She tells me that it is just some cold or flu, that we're all OK and most of these people will be.

We will give them medicine and tell them how to make their own. They will survive; I will make sure they do. 

I get up to leave this girl to those more capable, but she grips my fingers weakly and cries out in her own tongue. I squeeze back and lift her onto the stretcher. She will need intensive treatment and will receive it in a temporary field hospital. I walk alongside her, fingering my cap and glasses.

'Outmoded cultural icons' is what Daniel calls them. A hindrance to communication, more like.


End file.
